Bourne in the Past
by AH Fan 206
Summary: A mysterious woman is pulled from the water, with no idea who she is or where to go. The only clues she has to go on is what is contained in brief flashes of memory. She doesn't even know her own name. Struggling to find her identity, she travels looking for memories. She meets another person, who she feels is connected to her past. Who is this man, and why is he running?
1. Chapter 1- Blood and Water

**Ch. 1- Blood and Water**

Dr. Marcus Jones was having a rough day. In his opinion, the small craft they were standing on could barely be called a boat, much less a ship. It was only 150 feet long, and had enough cabin space for a crew of 10, if they crammed together to sleep. The fisherman called it _I'Argo,_ in honor of the once famous Greek ship that was sailed by one of the world's most well known mythological heroes. It may have once been worthy of the name, but now it has been reduced to a rusty, foul smelling hunk of brown metal that the sailors fish from. Marcus sighed. After an 8 hour flight from the states to Rome, then south by car across the worst roads he has ever seen, he finally arrived at the small fishing village of Pineta Riviera, where has was able to bribe a sailor to allow him to accompany him on his trip. This wasn't an exotic vacation, where you would travel to remote places in the world to learn about the culture and experience new things. This was work. Marcus Jones was a doctor in Marine Biology, and he came to study the local fish. It was rumored that recent storms had brought rare deep sea fish to the surface, and were being caught by fishermen.

The day started off well enough. The crew were able to bring in more fish than usual for this time of year, but, upon examination, none off the fish were anything of interest. He was hoping to see something uncommon, but it seemed he was out of luck. With nothing else to do, the captain put Marcus to work, having him detangle nets and help haul nets up from the water. By dinner time, his back and shoulders were aching, not used to the strenuous work. Then the storm hit. Raindrops that felt like the size of marbles were thrown down at them with the force of a gun, the sky randomly flashing with lightning, and the large, spontaneous boom of thunder echoed around them. Worst of all was the hard rocking of the boat, making Marcus feel like they could capsize at any moment. The captain, sensing his unease, let him head back into the cabin to try and focus on not getting seasick. The storm roared on.

Nearly an hour later after no sleep, Marcus slowly stood up off the bunk. The crew had all gathered near the port side of the boat, at least, he thought it was the port side. His ship vocabulary was not up to par. Could the crew have found a deep sea fish? he thought. He could either abandon the safety of the cabin and brave the storm, or stay in and possibly fall asleep. Curiosity won out. He pulled on his raincoat and opened the door. Immediately, Marcus was thrown off balance by the rushing winds and unsteady, tipping floor, nearly off the side. Gasping, he pulled himself up and stumbled over to the crew, pushing his way through. His mouth fell open in shock. It was a dead body.

He had never seen a dead body before, only in movies. The body was that of a woman, with jet black hair and a wetsuit on. The closer he looked, the more details he noticed. There was blood oozing from an opening in her side, a dark, nearly black color. Small cuts and bruises littered her once clean face, now filthy with blood and the grime of the sea. She may have been beautiful, with high cheekbones and a soft, smooth face but he couldn't tell through the welts and dirt. The scene before him sent a shiver down his body, aided by the dark and cold atmosphere of the storm. The crew seemed to have gone silent, realizing what they had pulled up. But as he looked, he noticed something. The girl was breathing. "She's alive!" he yelled over the storm, "We need to get her inside!"

The crew realized that to, and quickly started to move. Pulling her out of the net, they set her on a spread out blanket to use as a gurney. Three of the crew moved to grab the corners to lift, and Marcus caught ahold of the last corner. Once they were inside, they led here down to a table where they had finished supper, hours earlier. Now cleared, they laid her on to the hardwood surface and lowered the blanket. She was now face up on the table, breathing shallow and slow, like that of a small dog. To Marcus, she looked to be in pain. Her face was tight like she was trying to not shout or move, but she was still out cold. At least she was out of the wind and rain, he thought. There was a sudden commotion behind him. Glancing back, he saw the only other English speaker on the boat surge forward through the small crowd. It was Dr. Washburn, a old medical practitioner who was hired by the captain to help with any injury that his crew sustained.

"Togliti di torno!" Washburn yelled in what Marcus presumed to be Italian. The crew started moving towards the door. He continued, pointing at him, "You, stay here with me. I need your help." He motioned to the woman. "Flip her over." Nodding, Marcus grabbed at her shoulders and spun her to her side, then on her stomach. Looking up, he saw that Washburn had already retrieved his medical bag, and had pulled out a scalpel. Slowly, he bent over her and sliced open her wetsuit right down the spine, careful to not push too far and cut her. The doctor motioned to the other to grab and gently pull open the fabric, exposing her back. The both gaped at what they saw. The source of the blood from earlier was revealed as two bullet holes, one on her left side and the other at her right shoulder, just beside the shoulder blade. Marcus looked up at Washburn and muttered, "Holy...", too shocked to continue. The doctor had turned pale, while Marcus was a sickly shade of green.

Washburn noticed his color. "Go upstairs and make some coffee. God knows we'll need it." Marcus nodded thankfully and left. Turning back to the surprise patient, Washburn pulled out tweezers and moved to take the bullets out, which have buried themselves barely half an inch into her. He considered her damn lucky. Noticing more blood poor from her side than her shoulder, he shifted left and slowly caught ahold of the small metal object. He pulled. If he had paid more attention, he would have noticed her hand slowly flexing moments before, her foot stretching, and her eyes pull themselves open. She felt the sharp pain of the tweezers shifting the bullet, and acted on instinct.

Her hand moved first, reaching out and grabbing the scalpel, holding it with the confidence of a world class chef with a knife. Her back twisted away from Washburn, turning her towards him. The tweezers pushed the bullet back in during her movement. Jumping off the table, she caught ahold of his hands and pinned them above his head, shoving him into a wall with the scalpel at his throat. All of this happened so fast that he did not even have time to shout in surprise. Staring right at him, she said in a panicked voice, "Where am I? Who are you?" Suddenly, the sharp gaze in her eye shifted to one of confusion and pain as everything caught up to her. She fell forward slightly, off balance by the rocking of the boat and the pain in her head and back. Washburn gently grabbed her and set her back down on the table as the fell. "I'm a friend." he said just as gently, ignoring the slight spill of blood sliding down his neck, "You're on a boat. We pulled you out of the water." She just looked confused, glancing around. He said something, but she couldn't catch it. "What?" she asked quietly. "I said what's your name?" he repeated. A look of pain swept across her face. "I don't know. Oh G-God." she stuttered, falling back, again, out cold.


	2. Chapter 2- Attempted Manners

**Ch. 2- Attempted Manners**

Cold, hazel eyes shot open with a start, still feeling but not remembering the visions that had passed through her subconsciousness while she was out. She had finally managed to get comfortable enough that the crew members weren't going to assault her in her sleep, and had fallen into unconsciousness. It had only taken her two days.

In those two tense days, she had gone up and met with the crew and captain, against the doctor's orders, of course. Her back and side had flared up in an intense pain immediately once she had pushed herself off the table she was operated on and had nearly collapsed trying to support herself. Pushing through the stabbing in her side and the intense headache that permeated in her skull, she managed to gather herself together enough to reach the deck. Feeling the need to thank the crew for saving her life, she went looking for either Dr. Washburn or Dr. Jones, the only English speakers she knew about, to translate. She passed by the few crew members on deck, heading to the back cabin, which she knew where she would find one of the two men; it was where the visitors were placed, although she didn't know how she knew that. She was able to catch a piece of the conversation from the men.

"I wish I could say the same, my friend! I haven't gone the time for a wife, with me being on the sea with you lot." one of the crewmen spoke boisterously. She understood him perfectly, as easily as if he were speaking English. But he wasn't. The conversation was in fluent Italian, roughed up a bit with what she supposed as a local accent. Slightly shocked, but all the while intrigued, she decided to test herself. Stumbling toward the small group, she jokingly replied, "Then I guess you'd be out of practice in the company of women, I suppose." The men jumped a bit, having not noticed her fumble her way up. She continued on, "Oblivious lot, you are. That may get you killed some day." The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them, taking her and the others by surprise. They glanced at her, not believing that this was the body they pulled out of the water the night before. They kept looking at her in disbelief and shock, which in turn made her uncomfortable under their gaze. "What the cazzo are you doing up?!" The voice came from behind her, in a mix of English and Italian. Unconsciously straightening up, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet to the aggressiveness of the voice, she turned around and saw the old doctor from the last night sticking his head out of a doorway, anger clearly written on his face.

Stepping out, he stalked towards her. "The last thing a person who was shot twice in the back, beaten, and nearly drowned should be walking around! I want you back in bed!" Her lips tightened in anger. She was an adult and should not be told what to do! Even if that man was her newly-found doctor! Gearing up to retort, she stared at him in a blank look, then her eyes wandered down. There was a thin, angry, red line zipping across his neck, obviously irritated by the makeshift bandage of a towel in his hand. A flash of guilt passed through her, making her tighten up even more as she loosened her gaze at the man. Her mouth slowly opened to finally respond after the gap of silence from his pissed off attitude. But before she could say anything, he noticed her slip of emotion coming through, obviously extracted from the shallow but sharp cut on his neck. "Nevermind that! I want to talk to you. Figure out how you got stranded in the middle of the water." He motioned her to follow him back inside. As she started moving, the largest sailor next to her reached out and took a firm hold of her right elbow, probably to question if she was feeling alright. Her mind reacted on autopilot. In less than a second, her right leg had lashed out as hard as it could, striking the large man in the stomach. He let go, all her balance on her left leg, causing her to pitch forward. Automatically, she tucked her shoulder in to roll, pushing her right shoulder into the ground, right where the entry wound of a bullet was! Exploding in pain, she slumped down on the deck, breathing heavily and fast. A small cry was pulled from her lips.

Dr. Washburn was there beside her in even less time than it took to happen, looking down at her as if she was a small, fragile doll that was just dropped. He thought the analogy fit well. Lightly gripping the front of her shoulders, he kept her from moving anymore. "You're alright," he muttered sarcastically, "Just some major bruising and a hole in you, you know." He gently picked her up with the help of Marcus Jones, who had seen the commotion and ran over. He felt a small sense of guilt not being able to assist the doctor more the previous night, stuck to just fetching coffee and damp towels. Looking down at her frail form, she reminded him of his little sister, who once fell from a tree and broke her arm, still too stubborn to ask for help. Working together, they were able to carry the unknown woman to a bunk, setting her down on a mattress. She seemed to finally realize where she was and what had happened.

"That sucked." she pronounced with a heavy sign once the majority of the agony she called a bullet wound went away. "I don't know," Marcus said cheekily, "your first meet with the crew went pretty well, all things considered." She and Washburn just glanced at him, not in the mood for his wit. The doctor looked back at her and lightly touched her forehead with the back of his hand. "Marcus, will you please go grab a cold washcloth. She's burning up." Now that he mentioned it, she was hit with a sudden burning feeling throughout her body, with pulses of a dull ache at her side and shoulder, in sync with the pumping of her blood flowing through her. Her dark hair, now slightly frizzy from the humidity, swept across her face, as if trying to hide the lighter tone of bruising and cuts. A look of concern passed from his face to a look of, dare she say, curiosity. It sent a slight tingling down her spine, guessing what would come next. She was right. "You are going to have to answer a lot of questions, _donna_." he said, slipping back into italian. She slumped down onto the bed. And this was only day one.


	3. Chapter 3- Confrontation

**Ch. 3- Confrontation**

"When you woke up last night, you told me that you don't remember your own name. Now, what I am wondering is how an English-speaking woman ended up off the Italian coast, in the water, left for dead with two shots in her back, claiming she doesn't know who she even is!" Dr. Washburn took a moment to close his eyes and compose himself, not noticing the analyzing look that swept across her face, eyes narrowed in concentration, not on the doctor, but on what she actually did remember. Washburn opened his mouth to speak, a more calm expression shown to her, but he was interrupted. "Can I trust you? I don't even know your name, only the fact that you are the doctor that pulled bullets out of my back." She thought herself being overly cautious, but it just came naturally to her.

"How can you trust me?! You're the one who we pulled out of the water, half dead! And I did much more than remove a few pieces of metal! You know, the only scar I will have on my body will be on my bloody neck. My neck! How do I explain that, besides saying my crazy ex tried to kill me! So, sorry if I came off as distrusting, but I don't know a damn thing about you!" He was fuming mad, chest heaving, a sharp, lazer-like glare directed at her. She tensed up again, but then relaxed. She replied, "I guess you have a point. You want me to tell you something." Her gaze fell up towards the ceiling, vaulted only six feet above them. She twiddled her hands, fingers circling around each other nervously. He looked her dead in the eyes, shoulders slumping forward in exhaustion, he softened his voice and whispered, "please.." Ignoring her nerves, she began to speak.

"I'm sorry about the cut on your neck. I wasn't thinking straight. I woke up in a dark place, with no idea where I am, and saw a man behind me cutting open my clothes. I'm sorry I assumed." The untold thought rang throughout the room, igniting a heavy silence. "I really am sorry, but I want answers just as bad as you, if not more." His eyebrows arched, curiosity sparked. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I don't know who I am. I don't know where I'm from, where I've been, what I've done. Any of it. It's all blank." Her statement received a blank stare from the man, shock reverberating through his body, then an amusing thought came to mind. Scoffing, he asked "What, like amnesia?" Giving him a blank look, not unlike that of a statue, and with no hesitation, "Exactly." was her curt reply. Realizing she was either completely serious or insane, the smirk fell off his face, replaced with that of a professional doctor, ready to work. "If you have forgotten everything, you must have taken a pretty hard hit to the head, but considering the only head injuries I could identify were some heavy bruising, which isn't enough to cause massive brain trauma, you may have suffered emotionally or psychologically, causing you to repress your memories. If what you're saying is true, this may be the largest case of amnesia ever recorded."

"No records!" she blurted out without thinking. "I get a bad feeling of putting this on record. Anyone can see it." she clarified, not knowing why she felt the need to share with him. "Okay." he said slowly, as if trying to point out the absurdity and lunacy of that statement. Moving on, he continued, "You say you remember nothing? At all?" She nodded her head in confirmation, identifying his demeaning tone but ignoring it for now. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Focusing, she pushed her mind as far back as it could, struggling to understand the brief flashes of memory popping in her head. A pained look appeared on her soft face, contrasting with the nearly casual but blank look she had thrown up earlier in their conversation. Focusing harder now, she attempted to grasp at any memory but only catching snippets as they slipped from her focus. A young man's smiling face. Bright, blinding lights in rain. A rough voice yelling. All came back, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't grasp at them, give them any context. She tried harder. Clenching her hands tightly in a ball, she delved deeper. She was on a boat in the water, during a storm. She was with another, but couldn't see who it was. Sudden spikes of pain flooded from her memory, causing her to grimace. The doctor noticed. He reached out and gently, as if caring for a daughter, grasped her hands and pulled her back to the present.

"What did you see?" he spoke softly, as if anything louder would break her. Eyes watered in feelings of pain, but not memories. "I think I remember a boat. A person was with me. Then just pain. Only pain." she said sorrowfully, trying no to panic. "That's all I got. What comes next was you, cutting open my suit." Losing focus, she glanced around the room, her pained expression loosening. "Can I get some water?" She felt drained, both emotionally and physically. As the doctor went to stand up, the door burst open. Marcus came strolling in with a washcloth and a bowl of water. Smiling, he glanced up, suddenly feeling the somber tone of the room. His smile shifted from that of energy to one of concern, directed at her. "How you feelin'? Still alive, I hope?" His teasing tone had an immediate effect on her, a soft smile growing on her face. Washburn took notice and nudged his fellow doctor in the side. "Seems you aren't completely useless, huh?" Marcus just shrugged.


	4. Chapter 4- Stepping Off Point

**Ch. 4- Stepping Off Point**

The next few days passed by seemingly in a moment, for her at least. The two doctors could have always been found together, discussing about the unnamed woman laying in a bunk. Being doctors in marine biology and medical, they wanted to know more and understand exactly what had happened to her and how it happened. All they could gather from her was that she was on a boat the night of the storm, presumably shot, and fell in the water. Trying to get more information, or to spark her memory, they prodded her with questions, gently at first but eventually poking too hard. When they did that, they quickly learned to run, after a interesting experience with a butter knife. The blade was still stuck in the wall, and every time she glanced at it, Washburn and Marcus ended the conversation.

Despite their thorough questioning, she had no other memories come back. Stuck in bed, with only her memories from the past few days on the _I'Argo_ and flashes of a storm and pain, she went a little stir crazy. Dr. Washburn was very adamant about her staying in the bunk, resting and healing, but he quickly learned something; she was very stubborn and rebellious. He caught her multiple times throughout the trip walking around the deck, studying everything in sight, ignoring the pain flaring from her side and shoulder as she moving in smooth, fluid motions, capturing everything in her mind. Washburn would give a glare that could turn people to stone, and she would just smile apologetically and shuffle back to her designated bunk. But that didn't stop her from moving for very long. He believed he could have tied her down to the bed and she still would get out and explore the boat. The butter knife just accented his thought of her; that she was capable of interesting things that no one would rationally expect from a woman of her size and stature, thin but lean, shorter than average but still carrying a calm, commanding presence. He thought her extraordinary.

She thought so, too. Some things came to her naturally, like the butter knife or kicking that crewman the first day she was up. So, acting as a thoughtful, analytical human being, she decided to pass time by testing herself. Staring at the only mirror on the boat shoved in the rusted, musty room that was called a bathroom, she found out that she was multilingual. Already knowing she was fluent in English and Italian, she started with languages similar to those. German, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Greek, and even Russian all came to her, although the last one took some thought process to come back to her. She was even able to switch between accents in most of the languages, surprising herself with recognizing the difference between eastern and western Russian. She didn't share her language skills with the doctor, afraid she might scare him with her incredibly diverse talent.

She spent a few days, ignoring the doctor's adamant wishes, "I am an adult and could feel my limits!" She would go around the deck, discovering new things about herself such as her advanced knowledge of knot tying, geographical skills (she figured out they were about 20 miles west of the Italian coast, just south of Naples), and that she could anticipate punches. She had to recruit Marcus for that trial. But the time kept advancing to the scheduled date of docking, where it was agreed she would leave, out in the world on her own, heading to who knows where. There wasn't a lot of options for a stranded amnesiac in a possibly foreign country.

They reached near the shore in early morning, while the Jane Doe slept in her appointed bunk. Marcus, already up and ready to leave, gently shook her awake, informing her that they had stopped. He was already packed, wanting to be ready to head back to America and publish the sparse information on fish he had gathered on his working vacation, as he put it. He offered to pay for an extra plane ticket, willing to take her to America, but she had declined adamantly, saying that she had a feeling to stay in Europe. An hour later, she was standing on the front deck, staring at the approaching dock, not seeing the dock, but distant flashes of memory that now defined her life. Dr. Washburn walked up to her, noticing the far-away look in her eyes and, not wanting to interrupt potentially returning memories, remained quiet.

 _A man's smiling face. She feels like she should know him, his name on the tip of her tongue, refusing to come. So she decided to focus on his face, memorizing it. It was handsome in the way that the average guy his age is. Thinking his looks could blend in with a crowd, she watched his features, a sharp, rectangular face with a strong looking jaw, thin mouth, short blond hair, and a relaxed expression with an undertone of tension on his face. He was saying something. "If we ever get seperated, head to the bank in Zurich. There should be supplies there. The account number is 000-7-17-12-0-14-26. She absorbed the number instantly, memorizing them as if her life depended on it. He didn't need to ask if she got it, he already seemed to know the answer, looking forward casually, as if he were out on a stroll and not giving her instructions on what seemed like condendincy plans._

"Hey, you alright?" A voice broke the silence. She turned around and saw Washburn standing there with his hands in his pockets, a sweater folded around his arm. She nodded absently, thinking on the smiling man she knew but doesn't know. Recognizing the scrunch of her eyebrows as focusing on her thoughts, he changed the subject. "I grabbed you this," he said, handing her the sweater. He pulled out a small wad of money and passed it to her as well. "It's not much, but it will get you somewhere." A small smile slipped on her face, seeing the kindhearted acts towards her since she was pulled up. "Thank you," she replied sincerely. She really meant it. "For everything." He smiled back. "You were a huge pain in my ass! But, what old man wouldn't have done what I did in my position. Sorry I couldn't give you more," he said gesturing to the money. "It was all I managed to grab from the crew!" He laughed while she just huffed in amusement.

"Any idea where you're headin'?" he asked. A brief pause, thinking at what the smiling man said. "Yeah, I got an idea."


	5. Chapter 5- Traveling, Past and Present

**Ch. 5- Traveling, Past and Present**

Naples was a city of constant motion, people crammed onto the sidewalk, shuffling through the crowds heading to or from work, or stopping at little restaurants that lined the cobblestone streets. The buildings all seem to have been built in the same way; tall and overpowering, seeming to attempt to swallow the streets below. The lofty walls of the buildings made the straight and narrow street go on forever, making commuters feel like they were getting nowhere. The style was constant throughout the city, even in the poorer areas. The only difference an average onlooker could see between the slums and the wealth areas were the age and wear of the buildings. If one looked harder though, they could see the danger of the slums. There was graffiti of lude references plastered on the buildings, next to the gang signs marking their respective areas. Every few alleyways, there was blood stains, hidden in dark corners behind dumpsters. All the signs screamed stay away, but she ignored them. She had to get somewhere.

About every ten blocks or so, there was a bus stop, with an old bus ready to pick passengers up every hour or so. It was currently 9:55, and she was a block away. She left the cheap motel she rented for the previous night at exactly fifteen till ten, not wanting to spent much time standing alone at a bus stop in the bad part of town. Arriving with exactly two minutes left, she leaned against the side of the bench, not sitting down. Who knows what happened on that bench. The bus finally arrived and she stepped on and, after a quick analyzation, she sat three rows from the front, right behind the driver. This was the best spot to keep him from seeing her face, was still close enough to the door for a fast exit, and allowed her an easy view at any other passenger that walks on, giving her time to assess if they were dangerous. She didn't know why she did it, but it almost came unconsciously. She tried to disobey her instinct on the last bus she was on, but that made her so inwardly nervous and tense that she had to get off. This bus ride was relaxingly uneventful, dropping her off at the train station, where she boarded the last train for the night heading north. It was scheduled to stop in Zurich, after passing by Florence and Milan, exactly where she wanted to stop.

She sat in the train compartment, with only the rhythmic rotation of the wheels beneath her as the only interruption of the silence. Blocking out the world and all of its troubles, she left her mind open, hoping that something from her past would fill the gap. She ignored the pounding headache, the burning of her healing side and shoulder, the panic of knowing nothing about herself, the feeling of scrambling in the dark, looking for a shred of light that was a memory, and she started to hum. Her mind filled with a soft piano, contrasting with everything she remembers. The smooth voice of a singer opened, covering the piano part with a deeper, emotional tone. The voice sang of a lost, seemingly unthoughtful man out on his own, with a friend asking them to come to their senses and realize that too much is hurtful to themselves and the people around them. Light violins sprang up, adding more tones to the soft and deep chords of the piece. He sang of wanting to fill a void, a gap that was left open because of his mistakes with others, but ultimately not being able to fill that gap with the physical world, because it was an emotional one. The next lyrical shocked her to the core, because it was accompanied by a vision of her past, along with a wave of emotions.

 _They were driving down an empty highway, him in the driver's seat and her next to him with her feet propped up on the dashboard. The sweet, soft, memorable song filtered through the radio, with them singing along, smiling. "And freedom, oh freedom, well that's just some people talkin'! You're prison is walkin' through this road all alone!" They were horribly out of tune with the voice, but they ignored the rest as they looked at each other and started laughing._ She couldn't remember any more of the moment or the song, causing her to focus back onto reality. A soft smile graced her lips while her eyes watered up. She had nothing to verify it, but she felt like that was one of her best memories, before she lost them all. She held onto the face of the man, knowing that she'd seen it but not knowing who it belonged to. It was the smiling man, who told her about the bank. The train kept rolling past the landscape, with her staring out the window, seeing the sloping mountains and the dark sky beyond and the bright sunlight just outside the car, listening to the melody that was only in her head.


End file.
